Maerith’s chambers were warm in a way the rest of the citadel was not.

  Not soft. Not comforting. Warm like a place that expected secrets and never judged them for arriving.

  Candles burned low along the walls, their flames steady. Heavy curtains muted the night beyond the narrow windows. The scent of dried herbs and old parchment clung to the air, mixed faintly with something sharper. Ink. Oil. Control.

  Caelum stood near the table, fingers resting on its edge, not sitting, not pacing. Contained. His dark hair had come loose from its tie, falling just slightly into his eyes. He hadn’t noticed. Or he had and didn’t care.

  Maerith watched him from her chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded loosely in her lap.

  “You’ve been standing there for a while,” she said at last. “If you’re waiting for the floor to argue back, it won’t.”

  Caelum didn’t look at her.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “You’re always thinking,” she replied. “The difference is usually that you let people see it.”

  Silence stretched.

  Then, controlled and precise, “They call him Your Grace now.”

  Maerith tilted her head slightly. “Yes.”

  Caelum’s jaw tightened. “They say it like they’re tasting something spoiled.”

  “They say it like they’re afraid it might taste back.”

  He turned to her then. Not angry. Not explosive. Just sharp with restraint.

  “You know what I’m capable of.”

  She met his gaze calmly. “I do.”

  “I know the rites better than most of the priests,” he continued. “I understand the histories. The failures. The patterns. I’ve spent my life preparing to rule wisely, not loudly.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Maerith nodded once. “And?”

  “And it chose him,” Caelum said. “A knight who doesn’t even know where to stand in a council chamber.”

  There it was.

  Not rage.

  Wounded precision.

  Maerith rose from her chair and crossed the room, her footsteps soft against the stone. She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the faint spice in her perfume.

  “Say it,” she said quietly.

  Caelum hesitated.

  “Say it honestly,” she pressed.

  His voice lowered. “If he fails, the blame won’t fall on him alone. It will fall on Valcaryn. On us.”

  Maerith studied his face. The tightness around his eyes. The way his hands curled slightly, like he was holding something invisible and fragile.

  “You’re afraid,” she said.

  Caelum exhaled sharply. “No. I’m insulted.”

  She smiled faintly. “There’s the truth.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  “I don’t envy his power,” Caelum went on. “I envy the fact that he won’t be questioned the way I always am. Every decision I make would be examined. Doubted. Compared. And he…” He trailed off.

  “And he will be forgiven his ignorance,” Maerith finished. “Because destiny is an excellent excuse.”

  Caelum looked away.

  “I don’t hate him,” he said quietly. “I just don’t understand why the Stone would discard someone ready.”

  Maerith lifted his chin gently, forcing him to meet her eyes.

  “The Stone doesn’t choose readiness,” she said. “It chooses necessity.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “No,” she agreed. “It’s a warning.”

  She stepped back, folding her arms now.

  “You are brilliant, Caelum. That isn’t flattery. It’s a fact. You see angles others miss. You understand consequences before they arrive. That makes you dangerous.”

  His brow furrowed. “Dangerous to whom?”

  “To fate,” she said simply.

  He scoffed softly. “You’re saying I was too good.”

  “I’m saying,” Maerith replied, voice smooth and steady, “that men like you change the world intentionally. The Stone prefers those who change it accidentally.”

  That landed.

  Caelum was quiet for a long moment.

  “Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked. Not bitter. Not pleading. Strategic.

  Maerith’s smile returned, thin and knowing.

  “You do what you’ve always done,” she said. “You watch. You learn. And you prepare for the moment when destiny stumbles.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Everyone stumbles,” she replied. “Especially those lifted too quickly.”

  Caelum straightened, composure settling back into place like armor.

  “You’re telling me not to challenge him.”

  “I’m telling you not to rush,” Maerith corrected. “Jealousy is loud. Intelligence waits.”

  He nodded slowly.

  As he turned to leave, he paused at the door.

  “Mother,” he said. “If the Stone had chosen me… would you have trusted it?”

  Maerith didn’t answer immediately.

  When she did, her voice was honest.

  “I would have trusted you,” she said. “Which is far more dangerous.”

  Caelum inclined his head once.

  Then he left the room quietly, leaving behind the candles, the silence, and a mother who already knew which battles were worth waiting for.